


From Ashes

by 2spooky4u, your mom (2spooky4u)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Anal, Angst, Angst and Romance, Blow Jobs, Eventual Stiles/Derek - Freeform, Firefighter!Stiles, First Time, Fluid Sexuality, Hand Jobs, Heavy Angst, Heavy Drinking, Loss, M/M, PTSD, Roommates, Slow Build, Soldier!Derek, Stiles Takes Care Of Derek, Veteran Derek, Veterans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-05 07:24:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2spooky4u/pseuds/2spooky4u, https://archiveofourown.org/users/2spooky4u/pseuds/your%20mom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's only been back from his service tour for a little while. Far too soon to be adjusted to civilian life. Not to mention blind dates. He's still adjusting. Therefore, he hasn't bothered establishing an insurance policy on the old family mansion, now empty, so when it burns down he has nothing: no clothes, no job, no keepsakes, nowhere to live. </p><p>Oh wait, he does have somewhere to live, but it's in the spare bedroom of his super-obnoxious blind date, Stiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Burnt

Derek Hale was pretty sure he didn't even like the guy. _Go on a date, Derek,_ Scott had said- Scott, that obnoxious veterinarian-cum-friend who somehow he continued to hang out with despite the fact that his dog had been given to a cousin upon Derek's deployment. _It'll be fun. Meet someone. Chicks dig soldiers_.

 

Then, when Derek had said _what if I don't want to go out with a girl_ Scott took it to mean he was gay. Which was a half-truth. He was bisexual. He just didn't want to go out with anyone. He wanted to sit in his giant, empty house and brood, eat take out food, and binge-watch shows on Netflix eight hours at a time. Not date someone. He berated himself. Anyone who was good enough friends with Scott to be assigned a blind date couldn't be someone Derek actually _liked_. And boy, was that the truth. 'Stiles' Stilinski- _how is that even a real name?_ \- was talkative, chipper, friendly, and most of all _annoying_.

 

“So then I was like, how haven't you heard of Spider-Man? I mean, Batman is cool and all, but, like, he has no real powers. Not like Spidey. I mean, Peter Parker is such a bad ass whereas Bruce Wayne just has a really cool car and a bajillion dollars to his name. Don't get me wrong, I like Batman, but-”

 

The man's- man? Boy? Stiles's tirade was cut off by the arrival of an attractive waiter. Bemused, Derek watched as he was not-so-subtly checked out. And with a date right there, too. Maybe they were just too unlikely a pair that they didn't come across as a couple. Derek could hope, right?

 

“Can I get you guys a check?”

 

“Yes, please,” Derek said, realizing a moment too late that his eagerness might be offensive. He couldn't bring himself to care. Stiles was his total opposite: talky where Derek was taciturn, cute where Derek was gruff, unburdened where Derek was.....haunted. A flicker of understanding crossed the other man's face and Derek felt a little ashamed.

 

“Sorry. I talk too much sometimes,” Stiles said quietly as the waiter- Danny- left to go ring them up. He poked at the crumbs of his scone. Great. This kid could really lay on the guilt. Derek sighed. “Scratch that. Not sometimes or even most of the time. All of the time. Like, I never shut up. Oh my god, I'm doing it again. Shit.”

 

Nope, he was back to annoying.

 

“I'm sorry,” Derek said, rubbing his face with his hands tiredly. “I haven't been back in the States long and it's just- I don't know. It's strange being back.” Shit. He hadn't meant to reveal anything about his enrollment in the Marines. He was a soldier, not a bedraggled wet puppy who needed coddling and special treatment. Besides, who was a veteran at twenty six? He had no other marketable skills and he wouldn't ever be able to join back up, not after-

 

“Here you go,” said the waiter, who had, mercifully, given them two checks. Maybe waiters had an innate sense of when dates were going terribly. Derek opened up the little leather folder thing and looked at the bill. Sixteen dollars, forty three cents. Turning it over.....the waiter's number. No wonder he gave them separate checks. Derek sighed inwardly. Why couldn't anyone tell he wasn't interested right now? In anyone?

 

 

After a few awkward _see you around_ s were exchanged, Derek sat in his car, guilt catching up to him. Sure, the guy was irritating, but he seemed genuinely interested in Derek. He didn't deserve to be set up and then dropped without any consideration. He ran his hands through his hair, not really wanting to head home just yet, but not having anywhere to go, he decided to just drive around for a while.

 

Soon enough, his muscle memory dove in and he was on the route to his house. It was getting dark.

 

Nearing the clearing where the house was, Derek was immediately wary of the lack of silence. Usually, this part of the woods was deserted, spare a particularly staminous jogger every few weeks. He slowed his car down to a crawl, rounding the corner, all soldier instincts kicking in.

 

His heart skipped several beats as his house came into view.

 

It was on _fire_.

 

“No. No no no,” Derek muttered, staggering out of his car and up towards the house. Fire trucks and police cars were scattered nearby, but it seemed that the lack of nearby fire hydrants had rendered the firemen unable to do much.

 

“Mr. Hale?” A policeman with greying hair and kind eyes walked over to him. Derek nodded dumbly.

 

“My house,” he said after a moment. “What happened?”

 

“We're not sure, but we have reason to believe that this was the work of an arsonist.”

 

“Arson?” Derek repeated, blinking.

 

“Do you have any enemies, Mr. Hale?”

 

“None this side of the ocean,” Derek said wryly. The policeman's eyebrows rose minutely.

 

“Well, Mr. Hale, we're going to get to the bottom of this. My name's Sheriff Stilinski, and I'll be in charge of the investigation. Here's my business card, but I need to go call someone to make sure the fire is stopped before it can spread to the forest.”

 

Derek put the business card in his pocket. He shook his head to clear the fog. This wasn't a bad situation, not at all. Bad was Ensign Reyes, _Derek, I can't feel my legs_ , gurgling blood until she coughed weakly and died. He wasn't in danger. He had always kind of resented the house anyway.

 

Derek returned to his car to lock it up and close the doors, striding back to the clearing where a group of firemen were talking in hushed tones.

 

“What do I need to do?” Derek asked. The firemen blinked at him.

 

Oh, shit. Stiles was one of them, now dressed in a heavy tan uniform and helmet, face smudged with ashes.

 

“Mr. Hale, do you have any insurance?” Stiles asked, no trace of awkwardness anywhere. He motioned for the other firemen to leave them alone and they complied.

 

“N-no,” Derek realized, heart sinking. “I was going to get that settled soon.....”

 

“So you don't have any? At all? Nothing on the house?” Stiles asked, voice growing quieter. His head tilted with sympathy and his face began to contort into that awful frown-smile thing people wore when they were about to say _it's okay, I know how you feel_ , except they had no idea. Derek wanted to slap him. He refrained. It wasn't the kid's- no, the man's, he was old enough to be in charge of other firefighters- fault he had run into so much pity lately. Or that his house was quickly becoming charcoal. Or that he had been too busy wallowing in his little self pity party to bother reestablishing insurance and shit like that.

 

“No. I have driver's insurance. Probably.”

 

“Don't tell me that, I'm technically an officer of the law,” Stiles said. “As far as I know, you are on top of everything. But this does mean, however, that you're going to be paying for everything on your own. Hotel for the next few days. Place to live indefinitely. All of the rebuilding and damage. Do you know if there are any veterans associations that can help you out?”

 

“Scott told you I was a soldier?” Derek asked, eyes narrowing. He had specifically told Scott to leave that detail out of any and all conversation regarding him.

 

“No, nobody told me. You have buzzed hair, you 'haven't been back in the States long', you kept looking around like you needed to be clear of all threats at all times while you ate god damned _penne_ , and your boots aren't civilian. Someone's car alarm went off while we were eating and you reached for where a weapon would be. I'm not _that_ self absorbed,” Stiles said, frowning.

 

“There was a car alarm?” Derek asked. Stiles raised an eyebrow.

 

“Yes. And you reached for a gun that wasn't there.”

 

“Shit.”

 

“Anyway, Mr. Hale-”

 

“My name is Derek. Mr. Hale is what my teachers called me in middle school.”

 

Stiles chuckled. “Okay, then, _Derek_ , do you know of any organizations that might be of any help? I'm sure if you took the angle of 'I've been so traumatized by the war that I forgot to get insurance', there would be plenty of people jumping at the chance to throw money and pullout beds at you.”

 

“Excuse me?” Derek asked, mouth open. “Who says I'm traumatized?”

 

“No one. I'm sure you aren't,” Stiles said hurriedly. “Um. So. Any ideas?”

 

“Nope.” Derek had vowed to keep himself as far away from any veterans' assistance organizations. There were vets who couldn't walk anymore, vets who desperately needed a steady job but lost limbs and couldn't work. They needed the help, not him.

 

“Got any friends in the area? Family?”

 

“Nope,” Derek repeated. There was Scott, but he was more of a casual pal than a friend who might provide a couch for a while. Besides, he had a new baby, and a new promotion.

 

“Right.” Stiles frowned. “So, you've got those clothes and your car.”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Sleep with me,” Stiles blurted. Derek almost sputtered, and the young firefighter's face turned deep scarlet. “Uh. No, not like- shit. I mean, I have this giant house, and like, four spare bedrooms, and a Costco membership that hardly gets used. I sleep at the station half the time anyways.”

 

“I don't want to impose,” Derek said.

 

“You wouldn't be imposing. Seriously. Plus, hate to break it to you, but you haven't got any other options that I can see. I can help you find a sleeping bag and a nice bridge....”

 

“I have some money, I'll get an apartment or something.”

 

“You have no job. Rent would eat up your savings eventually, plus house repair costs. If you want, I can call you my room mate and charge you rent. Um, how's a couple dollars a month and occasional washing of dishes sound? We wouldn't even have to share a bathroom. Free wifi.”

 

Derek didn't respond. Stiles was right, he had no other viable options for right now.

 

“Come on, dude. Seriously. I'll even never talk to you or look at your stuff.”

 

“Fine,” Derek sighed after a little while. Stiles smirked knowingly and gave him a key and an address, telling him to go get set up while the 'good officers did their work'.


	2. Clatter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles 'does paperwork'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...................this is short...............I'm sorry.............
> 
>  
> 
> I'm basically losing my motivation for everything lately and I'm super lethargic lol so I play Pocket Frogs on my iPhone and watch Bones on netflix.........................

Stiles ran a hand over his face, sighing. Beacon Hills was a small enough town that usually the worst they tended to was a misplaced nine one one call or a minor car crash or a teenage bonfire narced on by some middle aged neighbors. House fires were taxing for everyone involved. He had told anyone who he had any form of command over to go home, that he would take care of the paperwork so that they could get back to their families, tuck in their children and kiss their various spouses. So that their families wouldn't worry needlessly.

 

Derek Hale.

 

Ex-soldier, young, obvious post-traumatic stress disorder, severe trust issues, probably a dead family too. And hot. Unfathomably hot. _No, Stiles, that doesn't matter, he's a person in need first, a fantasy insert second. Or, like, eighth. Come on._

 

 _What the hell were you thinking? Inviting an inhumanly-_ god thing- _into your house indefinitely? How could this possibly end well? We both know you don't do well in close proximity to attractive dudes. And chicks. Exhibit A: Lydia Martin._

 

_I'm over Lydia. And who is 'we both'?_

 

_You, me. Just 'cause we're one brain doesn't mean-_

 

_Oh my god. Stop thinking._

 

_Good luck with that. Maybe you should drink some more coffee. Yeah, I know, I know. Don't need the jitters,whatever- maybe you should do something to calm yourself down. The showers are empty...._

 

Stiles clenched his jaw, staring down at the paper as his exhaustion blurred the letters on the page and gave the illusion that they were sliding off onto the floor. Soon, he couldn't tell a lowercase w from a capital Q.

 

Giving up, Stiles stood up, the uncomfortable metal chair clattering to the floor. He smirked at it, finding some bizarre humor in the fact that his apathy might have been seen as anger when really he just didn't care enough to stand up gently.

 

Walking to his car, he decided that it would be 50% chance of suicide and/or paralysis if he drove home in such a tired state, so he curled up in one of the beds for the on-duty firefighters and more or less passed out, forgetting entirely about his house guest.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will update soon, it's just a matter of momentum.


	3. Temperatures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mornings are never easy. Ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well I had a study hall so you get two chapters in one day hip hip hooray
> 
>  
> 
> Also, possible triggers in this chapter. If vomit and/or PTSD issues/nightmares squick you out, you may want to avoid up until the first line thingy. The italicized text is a nightmare, the plain text after that before the line thingy is Derek getting sick. You've been warned.
> 
> Later, italics go back to being thoughts, namely Stiles's.

_Take them around the back, Hale, check for survivors, move!_

 

_Help me._

 

_Derek, I can't feel my legs._

 

_Hold on, just hold on, we'll get you back to the base--_

 

_It's no use, sir, she's dead-_

 

_It's a small bomb._

 

_Twenty seconds._

 

_Twenty, nineteen, eighteen._

 

_Help._

 

_Hold on, I'm coming--_

 

_Fourteen, thirteen, twelve, eleven, ten, nine._

 

_We can't turn it off!_

 

_Seven, six, five._

 

_Start running._

 

_I can lessen it some, sir, if I just stay here-_

 

_No._

 

_I'm dead anyways._

 

_Hale!_

 

_Three._

 

_Two._

 

_One._

 

Derek woke up screaming, his lungs stinging from lack of air and his ribs smarting. He gasped for air, choking and thrashing. He could feel himself getting sick, and desperately tried to gather enough oxygen before-

 

Too late. Derek could only turn his head as the heaving started, last night's food now a vile greenish mess across the sheets.

 

The sheets.

 

Derek continued to vomit, dizzy from lack of air, trying to remember where he was whose sheets these were, did he sleep with someone? No, not since before-

 

Where? Where where where?

 

Derek began to choke, coughing violently as his body attempted to expel his internal organs through his mouth. Fluid filled his nasal cavity and it stung, as he pushed himself off the bed- got to get to a toilet- and promptly fell over again, legs tangled in the sheets, now falling off the bed--

 

And then it was over. His stomach was empty and he breathed in a ragged breath, trembling, his body aching all over.

 

 _I'm back. Oh, god, I never left, did I? Some hospital room somewhere. Still deployed_.

 

 

Derek's nose and mouth stung enormously, and his chest was too weak for him to fully clear his airway. He curled himself inwards, still shuddering, and rested his head on his forearm. Vomit covered his face, neck, upper chest, and hands, and he realized with a dissociative disgust that his hands were in his hair- eugh.

 

He cried silently into his shirt until he finally fell back into a thankfully empty sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

By the time Stiles reached his house the next morning, he had already had two cups of burnt coffee and had showered, shaved, and otherwise groomed. Which was great and all, but now he had two days off. He couldn't lounge around the house, because there was someone there, even though technically it was _his_ house, his domain, his kingdom, and he could do whatever the hell he pleased there- but when there was someone else there, it became distinctly _not his_. No, right now it belonged to whoever was there because Stiles had to behave himself as if he was in _their_ house and not vice versa. Maybe he should invite Scott and Allison over, bring the baby, and he could spend the bubble of free time cooking something time consuming and impressive. Plus Derek knew them so he wouldn't feel awkward. Stiles _and_ Derek wouldn't feel awkward.

 

Speaking of awkward.

 

“Oh, uh, hi. Good morning,” Stiles said as he entered the kitchen to find Derek stationed there, staring into a mug of something as if it contained the answer to every question anyone in the universe had ever asked. Derek looked up absently, looking not at Stiles but kind of _through_ him if that made any sense to anyone other than Stiles's head.

 

Derek's posture changed almost immediately, going from _alone and brooding_ to _in company and brooding and therefore super gruff and guarded. Does this make me look enigmatic yet? Hahaha_.

 

Derek grunted and went back to his attempts to freeze over the beverage in his mug- his arm moved, and _is that orange juice? Who drinks orange freakin' juice out of a freakin' mug?_

 

“You know, it's usually customary to use mugs for hot beverages and glasses for cold beverages, but, uh, whatever floats your boat- you can drink a 'frigerated thing in a hot drink thing because it doesn't really matter, that's a stupid rule, who does that- well, I mean, other than everyone in America and probably most of the first world, I don't know, probably only in places where people can afford to buy separate dishes for hot things and cold things, that's silly, why do we need that rule, so, like, you can use my, uh, my hot thingies. Because you're hot.”

 

Derek's mouth fell open a little bit and he raised an eyebrow artfully towards Stiles and he exhaled amusedly. Which was totally a thing.

 

_Wow. Okay. Good going, Stilestopher, you've reinforced your annoying....ness.....thing and now he's annoyed. Not to mention the fact that you just called him hot. Did I? Probably. Yup, definitely._

 

“Okay. Well. You just keep doing, um, what you're doing, like, drinking juice and being mysterious and stuff, and I'm going to go. Um. Groceries. Shopping. Grocery shopping. Bye!”

 

Derek didn't respond. _The dude has issues. Oh, be nice, Stiles, probably post traumatized. You scared him out of his skin, of course he's going to be withdrawn._

 

Stiles sighed as he walked down the hall, grabbing the keys to his Jeep on the way out when Derek spoke quietly.

 

“Stiles?”

 

“Yeah, what's up?” Stiles said, backpedaling to the kitchen to poke his head in, an arm against the wood trim.

 

“I used your washing machine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK so all I really know about service overseas is what I've red and/or seen in movies like Apocalypse Now and stuff. I have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about there, but it won't be a huge factor. Derek will be very vague about it because it's painful for him to remember, so there won't be large amounts of detail.
> 
> Also, just 'cause someone asked, this IS endgame Sterek.


	4. Laden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shopping ft. Lydia Martin

Stiles walked into the grocery store, the automatic doors parting in his wake, and then realized that he had absolutely no idea what he intended to buy. Grabbing a cart, he began to wander the aisles, aimlessly sticking things at random into the cart. His purpose was to look like he had a purpose. Low pulp orange juice. Fresh apples. Half cream brie. Coffee creamer, peanut butter crackers. Toilet paper. Tomato soup and ground beef. Frozen french fries. Egg whites, peach yogurt, waffle mix Derek Hale mint tea, random box, drinking juice in a mug-

 

“Your time of the month?”

 

“Wha- freaking-” Stiles jumped, flailing around, his hand smacking Lydia Martin with a package of- oh. A package of feminine products in a garish pink box, adorned with absurd florals and an appalling diagram. Stiles dropped it like it had burned his hand. Lydia smirked.

 

“Zoned out much?”

 

“Maybe I have a teenage cousin staying over,” Stiles defended, without really knowing why. “Maybe I have a girlfriend. Or, like, a female. Person. At my house. Is that so hard to believe?”

 

“Hmm, let me think, _yes_ ,” Lydia said. “You don't have female cousins. Or male cousins, for that matter. And when's the last time you had a date?”

 

“Yesterday,” Stiles said without hesitation.

 

“Su-u-ure,” Lydia said, mock indulgent.

 

“No, actually,” Stiles said, nodding furiously. He actually did, damn it. Lydia didn't have to believe him. Fine. Her problem. He went on loads of hot dates all the time. With loads of attractive guys and girls. They were lining up to get in his pants. Bajillions of them.

 

“Your hands do not count, Stiles, we have been over this.”

 

“Whatever, Lydia. We can't all be in wedded bliss.”

 

“I'm not _actually_ married yet,” Lydia reminded him. “It's in June.”

 

“Close enough,” Stiles said, shrugging. He knew that, of course he knew that, he knew everyone's incumbent wedding dates. Danny and Ethan, Lydia and Aidan, Isaac and Cora. Even Greenberg had found some poor chick to marry. He was happy for all of them. He really was. There was absolutely no jealousy there. None. No jealousy whatsoever. He was in his mid-twenties, not his mid-forties, and therefore he had plenty of time to catch up with everyone in his friend group ever. So what if Scott and Allison already had a freaking baby? He was absolutely one hundred percent fine. He loved being single. Loved it. Riding solo was great. Nothing better than sleeping alone night after night, making those crap frozen dinners because he wasn't worth putting in the effort that cooking entailed. He loved being alone. He never had to fight over what TV program to watch or be accused of stealing all the covers or bicker over how long the in-laws stayed over. Did couples actually do those things or did they only happen in those god-awful Jennifer Aniston movies? He wouldn't freaking know, now would he?

 

“You're fooling no one,” Lydia said.

 

“Um, how much of that did I say out loud?” Stiles asked sheepishly.

 

“Enough,” Lydia said with a vague wave of her hand. She frowned, a mixture of equal parts _you're pathetic_ and _new project_. Suddenly Stiles could just hear that stupid _Wicked_ song in his head, the one where Glinda decides to give Elphaba a makeover so people will like her or something. Long story short, he was fucked with a capital F. Also the other letters should be capital too because he was really truly fucked.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Thirty minutes later, Lydia was forcibly dragging him via sharp claws (fine, fingernails) into the Beacon Hills Mall.

 

“You are going to look brand new when I'm finished with you,” Lydia said, eyes glimmering with excitement. “Like, casual, but really put together, you know? Like some model straight from the pages of a J. Crew catalog.”

 

“Those guys are like, eighty billion times more attractive than me,” Stiles groused. “I'll end up more like some dude straight from the pages of a- something. Something less attractive.”

 

“Eloquent as ever, Stiles,” Lydia said as she rolled her eyes. “Plus, you're moderately attractive. You could be worse.”

 

“Wow, that makes me feel a hell of a lot better,” Stiles bit back sarcastically. “'Moderately attractive'.”

 

“You're wearing a _plaid flannel shirt_ for god's sake. Do you even try?” Lydia asked, looking him over pointedly.

 

Stiles looked down. She had a point. He was wearing a pair of beat-up Converse All-Stars, mismatched socks ( _socks with freaking Converse? Really, dude?_ ), slightly ripped, loose jeans- still presentable! shouted some part of his mind- a faded _Beacon Hills High School Lacrosse_ tee shirt, and the infamous plaid flannel- olive green and navy blue. The battered old thing was missing two buttons and had an ominous orange stain anointing the breast pocket. Curry at best, Velveeta at worst. He looked like utter _crap_.

 

“I guess not,” he said, and the words came out much more quietly than he had intended, making him sound mopey.

 

“Just because you don't see yourself as attractive doesn't mean you aren't, and it certainly doesn't mean you have to dress like a bum.” Lydia smiled encouragingly and dragged him into a Gap store. “Let's start here.”

 

“This is.....uh,” Stiles trailed off, looking around at the stuff on the men's side of the store. Headless mannequins posed stiffly in creamy grey cardigans, fitted khakis in blues, tans, and faded reds and oranges. Stiles absentmindedly ran his hand down a cashmere sweater vest. “I'm allergic to dressing nice.”

 

“You'll just have to build up a tolerance,” Lydia quipped. “We'll start with some casual button-downs.”

 

'Some' turned out to be seven different shirts shoved into his arms before being pushed towards a dressing room. Smiling awkwardly at the bored college kid manning the dressing rooms, he was ushered inside.

 

“Whoah, whoah, Lydia, shouldn't you, like, not be in here while I'm changing?”

 

“No. You'll just sit here, unbutton some random buttons, and pretend you tried them all on before refusing to buy any of them. Now, strip.”

 

Eleven dressing room trips and $453.79 later, Stiles and Lydia left the Gap laden with bags. Stiles had bought three sweaters, four pairs of 'flattering' cords, two blue button-downs, a henley shirt, and a pair of socks for good measure. He began to make for the exit only to be grabbed once more.

 

“Lyd, I humored you for an hour. Can we please leave yet?” Stiles whined.

 

“One store. There's still J. Crew, Lacoste, Ralph Lauren......”

 

“Kill me now,” Stiles muttered darkly.

 

“You'll thank me later.”

 

“For what? Death by cardigan?”

 

“ _Stiles, please_.”


End file.
